


Pyroclastic Flow

by alexiel_neesan



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Post-Apocalypse, Gen, POV Outsider, inspired by the s4 teaser, off-screen canon-typical violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-22
Updated: 2014-05-22
Packaged: 2018-01-26 01:48:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 677
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1670246
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alexiel_neesan/pseuds/alexiel_neesan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A land is not broken as long as there are tales of it. (Ashes are only there to keep the ground warm)</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Inspired by the Teen Wolf s4 teaser video.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pyroclastic Flow

**Author's Note:**

> Original unedited post at the [cheeseverse](cheeseverse.tumblr.com), my Teen Wolf only tumblr.
> 
> Inspired by the Teen Wolf s4 teaser video.

"They" are the mad dogs, the things in the shadows.

There is a lot of things in the shadows nowadays, empty shells of humans, monsters, ghosts— and the more concrete problems, thieves, madmen, roving armed bands, people so far gone that logic and rational thought will never apply again. Those four, that group, they are none of those and worse and better. Rumor goes they are the land itself, hidden by the thick dust of destruction once west of Sacramento. Rumor goes they can take down anything— even the ghosts. Rumor goes their eyes glow.

Rumor also goes that there are metal birds in the sky in which aliens live, so really, you can’t listen to rumor seriously.

"They" don’t really have a name. Naming things give those very things power, everyone knows that now. Everyone also know that "they" are protectors, dealing only with the wicked and the evil. 

"Do they, now?" the young man says in response. He looks faintly amused, eyes crinkled at the edges, head propped up by his hand at an angle. His sleeves shorter than they should be to cross this part of the ashy wastelands, but the cook who has been chatting with him figures he’s part of a group or a caravan. People let a little more loose into the towns when they come off from days, even weeks, of heavy clothed travels. Towns are safe like that. That's how the cook makes his business, after all. 

The cook gives his pot a turn, and another, putting the lid back on fast before the dust and ash of the road float up to it. There's a whole technique to it. He's proud of it, makes the less ashy soup you can find in a street booth on this side of Beacon Hills.

A girl— no, a woman, steps to them, to the tarp-covered rickety table and its three stools on one side.

"There you are, Stiles," she says, and she sits down next to the young man. She, unlike her apparent travel companion, is wearing clothing more appropriate for travel, her sleeves long and the jacket layered. But her hair is long too, uncovered and thick with ashes, and she is the most stunning woman the cook has ever seen.  

She refuses food when he asks. The young man —Stiles— makes a move with his spoon that the cook takes as an incentive to keep talking about "them."

The woman he’d call dragon or phoenix if he didn’t know any better than to believe in fairy tales seems interested. And faintly amused, too, when he keeps going.

He talks about a tale well know in the town here, about losing all contact with the next town over, after the wasteland and the fields of petrified trees. When runners had been sent, the ones that came back said half the town had gone. Later still, the ones that came back, and the inhabitants of the town, told of monsters with red eyes that walked on two legs taking the town over, taking everything before one day as grey and dusty as any other, four came. They never say four what, and that’s how you know it was them, the mad dogs. They killed the red-eyes monsters and left.

His two clients are sporting the same expression now, and he wonders if they are siblings, eyes crinkled at the edges and heads at a slight angle. Stiles’ bowl is empty, and he declines a refill of the soup, turning around to hail two more young men coming from down the road. “You guys ready?” he says.

"We got everything," says the one wearing long sleeves. The other wears the same shirt as Stiles. The cook wonders when they got a caravan big enough that four people could wander around town without pack or proper equipment.

"Same here," says Stiles, and the woman stands up, hair trailing dust across her cheeks. "Thanks," he adds, to the cook, before the four take off.

The cook swears their eyes glint in the ashy daylight.

 


End file.
